Ibrahim al-Koni - Anubis - A Desert Novel

“The child isn’t the author of his questions, master. The author of his questions is the freedom dormant in the child’s breast.”

“This is a malady. It’s a curse. Watch out!”

“Yes, of course, master. Freedom is always a disease, always a curse, but — like prophecy — it’s a curse we worship.”

“For boys to utter prophecy is a sign of misfortune, even if their prophecy is genuine.”

“Am I a boy?”

“Your tongue has actually made me wonder whether you are.”

Silence reigned. Outside, the light’s color faded. So I asked, “Is it dawn or dusk?”

“Late afternoon.”

“I’ve been feeling I’m experiencing my birth.”

“Yes, that’s right. You are experiencing your birth. There’s no doubt about that.”

“Is it my second birth?”

“Yes, indeed. You have every right to feel sure of that.”

“Is the second birth paradise?”

“We cannot live once without hoping we’ll be born a second time.”

I repeated after him: “‘We cannot live once without hoping we’ll be born a second time’ … but, master, you speak of the price we must pay for departing to search for our fathers.”

“The price of searching for fathers is metamorphosis.”

“Metamorphosis?”

“Yes, indeed. I had to wage a lethal combat with the most wicked jinn before I could liberate you from the evil of metamorphoses.”

“Of what metamorphoses are you speaking, master?”

“Some shepherds were peacefully pasturing their flocks in Retem Ravine when they were taken by surprise by a despicable specter that terrified their animals.”

“A despicable specter?”

“It was an ugly, composite creature, half-man, half-beast.”

“Was it a jinni?”

Ignoring my question, he continued his tale. “He was creeping on all fours, competing for grass with the livestock. Around his neck hung some talismans. Wretch, did you drink gazelle urine?”

“Did you say ‘gazelle urine’? I think I saw something wondrous in the gazelle’s eye. I drank the urine and then saw the wondrous thing. Now I remember. The despicable hare crossed my path and led me off the trail. My thirst robbed me of my reason and I drank. I admit I drank gazelle urine. Had it not been for the gazelle’s urine, I would not have been liberated. Had it not been for the gazelle’s urine, I would not have been saved. Had it not been for the gazelle’s urine, I would not have witnessed my second birth.”

“You achieved your second birth, but your departure cost you your mother.”

“What?”

“You will never see her again, from this day on.”

I remembered again. I remembered that I had burst forth from the womb of my Ma one day. I remembered that she had taught me the names one day. I remembered that she had forbidden my search for my father, explaining that the homeland of fathers is the sky, not the desert. I remembered. I remembered.

“You set forth to find your father and thus lost both your mother and father.”

“From my mother I came. By my mother I lived, and to the embrace of my mother I will return. How can I believe that I could ever lose my mother?”

“From today onwards, you will never see her again.”

“I shall never believe that. But … what happened?”

“She only forbade you to search for your father because she was afraid of being separated from you. When she was told that you had fled to search for your father, she realized that she had lost you for good. When she went with the other women to draw water from the well, she surprised them and threw herself down its shaft.”

“No!”

“You killed her.”

“No!”

“You’re not just any kind of killer; you’re a matricide.”

At that moment I liberated myself. I liberated my body this time. The oppressive weight on my chest was lifted. I sprang up like someone springing free of a nightmare.

Yes, yes, it had to be another nightmare. The nightmare had continued, and the priest crouching opposite me was just the spectral figure of one of the jinn at whom I should throw a rock or a handful of pebbles. I reached to fill my hand with pebbles, which I threw at the figure’s face, but he did not disappear or dissolve the way an apparition would have. I recited a charm so ancient I did not know the meaning of the words, but he did not budge. I crept toward him until I could almost touch his intimidating turban with my head. I stared into his eyes for a long time and then asked, “Why don’t you tell me how you liberated me from the metamorphoses?”

AS DUSK DESCENDED, she chased me between the tents and pursued me out into the nearby open areas. She positioned her index finger in her mouth, just as she had so often done while a babe in the cradle. She crept after me as obstinately as a fly, just as she had done when she was still a toddler. For the twentieth time she said, “If you accompany me to Retem Ravine, I’ll tell you a secret.”

“You’re lying!”

“You won’t regret it.”

“I know this trick.”

“You won’t regret it.”

She spoke while continuing to suck on her finger. Seduction flashed in her eyes. She walked seductively and bore herself seductively. O Lord Ragh, how quickly the daughters of the desert mature! They are like desert plants that send up spiky stalks the day after it rains. Every part of our neighbor-girl had ripened and filled out: cheeks, breasts, and hips. When we were playing around the campsite, the naughty girl had grown accustomed to putting an index finger in her mouth while slipping her other hand stealthily between my legs. She would fool around there while she laughed and continued to suck on her finger. One time, I asked her straight out what was the secret of this tail boys have. She said that boys don’t play with dolls because they have a tail, whereas girls want a doll, since they do not have a tail. Then, laughing shamelessly, she placed her hand between my thighs and began to press what lay there. One day when I accompanied her to the pasture, she tried to pull my clothes off. I resisted her, but she calmly tore my shirt in two and dragged me under a bushy retem tree to be alone with me there. This evening also I yielded and accompanied her to nearby Retem Ravine.

When we were alone, I asked her what the secret was. Placing her index finger in her mouth and then withdrawing it, she said, “I wanted to tell you the secret about your mother.”

I replied with idiotic naiveté, “The priest told me I’d killed her.”

“Never believe a priest.”

“How can we doubt a priest who’s the author of a prophecy?”

She entertained herself by sucking on the invisible nectar of her slender finger. Her large black eyes, which resembled a gazelle’s, gazed into mine. Within her eyes there was a profound, secret treasure. She dropped her eyelids to veil the treasure. Then she withdrew her finger to say, “It was the priest who killed your mother.”

I did not believe her. I suddenly felt weak. My powers flagged. I stammered, “You’re lying!”

In her eyes, however, I saw what I did not want to see. I saw something the tongue could never convey. I saw the truth. I asked, “But why did the priest kill my mother?”

Sucking on her finger, she stuttered, “It was your mother who wished it.”

“What?”

“To pay for your return to the world.”

“What are you saying?”

“When you set out to search for your father, the men of the tribe set out to search for you. She vowed to sacrifice a she camel to the goddess Tanit if they found you alive. When they gave you up for lost, she vowed to give her entire herd to the goddess. When you entered the pasture lands with the body of a gazelle and the head of a man, as the news spread through the tribe, she offered her neck to the priest if he would return you to the world.”